


But even blindly I could read you

by Kendrene



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grounder Clarke Griffin, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29557410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: After the mountain, Clarke tries to escape the title of Wanheda and what it entails and seeks refuge and employement in a brothel. Things seem to go well, until Lexa becomes one of her clients.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 34
Kudos: 323





	But even blindly I could read you

**Author's Note:**

> Back with some more clexa feels. Hope you'll enjoy.
> 
> \- Dren

The thing Clarke has the hardest time getting used to is the noise.

It’s never really quiet inside the brothel. Sighs, whimpers, moans. Grunts. The obscene slap of flesh striking flesh. 

It takes some getting used to.

And even when the girls aren’t entertaining any clients, when the common room downstair’s is deserted — kind of desolate in the grey light of early morning after the last patron has stumbled out — even then, the brothel is not truly quiet. 

Some of the girls (and the boys) snore, others use the empty hours to gossip. Sounds are different when the brothel’s not open for business, softer. A quiet laugh, here and there, quickly hushed to avoid bothering the others. The sounds of living, ordinary and mundane. 

Still, after months with only her own thoughts for company, Clarke takes some time to adjust. 

The smells are different too, during the day. Domestic. Cooking smells, that drift up from the kitchens and make her stomach growl in anticipation of each meal. 

Bathing smells. Rose and lavender. The same fragrances that cling to her bedding, to the clothes she was given in lieu of her mud crusted, reeking leathers. 

A sharp contrast to the subtropical, musky scent of sex that hangs in the air at night, weighting it down so that it clings to Clarke’s skin in a film of sticky sweat. 

Speaking of, she runs the metal strigil down her bare arm, around the cap of her pale shoulder and along her bicep. The handle is metal too, warmed by her hand and smooth with use. The blade, meant to scrape, not cut, shines a burnished color in the light of the late afternoon sun. Bronze, she thinks. But Clarke’s no expert.

It still amazes her that they can wash everyday, and are encouraged to do so — not because she ever bought into some of the Arkers’ opinion that Grounders were savages — but because the brothel has running water. Working, if rudimentary toilets. 

And every last person working in the establishment receives a weekly wage. Can leave whenever, if they want to. Most choose to stay. Life here, life in Polis, is generally easier than in the outer territories. Not  _ easy _ , by any stretch of the imagination, but not as hard. 

Clarke sighs, setting her thoughts aside along with the strigil. 

The baths are communal, deep pools dug into solid rock. The water, Clarke was told, flows in from a nearby hot spring, its course harnessed when Polis was first settled by the Trikru. Steam rises from the shimmering surface, smelling faintly of sulphur, a peculiarity which ties into the brothel double function. 

Not just a place to buy a warm, willing body for a night, but where aching flesh also finds relief. 

And that is what Clarke herself offers, in exchange for food and a roof and  _ Nomon  _ Sylia pretending not to know who and what she is. 

The water is scalding, and she dips into the pool slowly. Sits on the edge and dangles her legs in first, then when her skin has stopped prickling, lowers herself down. 

It’s a painstaking process, especially when the liquid laps at the healed wounds on her back and shoulder. The flesh there is raised, not red anymore but lively pink. It will be months before it whitens, and the scar tissue will never go away completely. 

Already, when the weather changes, pain locks her back up. Bathing helps, and nobody has complained about Clarke bathing daily. They all remember how she looked when she showed up on the brothel’s doorstep; muddy and full of fleas. 

Gradually tension trickles away from her. Clarke uses a cake of yellow soap to lather up, body and hair both. The scent of the soap is herbal, neutral but fresh at the same time. With a ladle she sluices water on top of her head, rinses the suds out. That done, she allows herself a handful of extra minutes to float in the water — weightless, boneless — watching the soap dissolve and drain away into a side channel. 

By the time she climbs out of the natural pool — it’s not as much climbing as it is  _ wading  _ since the water barely reaches her chest when she stands — by the time she wraps herself into a soft if threadbare towel her skin is pruned and the late afternoon turned into dusk.

Clarke doesn’t dally any longer. She gets dressed quickly; a deep blue gown that leaves her arms bare, cinched at the waist by a belt of braided leather. Blue as well, but of a lighter shade — a pale spring sky. 

The gown comes from the brothel, but the belt she bought on the main square, last time she’d been to the market with some of the other girls. None of them suspect who she truly is, helped by the fact that with  _ Nomon _ ’s help her hair is styled differently. Shaved close to the scalp near her temple on one side, with the rest gathered in a braid she can throw over her shoulder. 

The baths, what pools are reserved to the workers situated at the back of the building, are an insular world of steam and dripping water. Removed from whatever goes on outside the wooden doors. 

And what Clarke finds when she finally steps foot into the halls is a kicked anthill. A hubbub of noise greets her, lashing at her ears. 

“The Commander!” One of the girls — red-haired Isa, young and excitable — whispers to her before darting down the corridor. “ _ Heda _ is here!”

The feeling of warmth the long soak left behind evaporates, and while the others hurry to the front of the establishment, eager to catch a glimpse of  _ Heda _ , Clarka hangs back. Looking for a way out. 

Her leaving outright would be noticed, but she can fake tardiness and reach the common room long after Sylia’s chosen who should take care of the Commander’s needs. Whatever they are.

The sheer amount of vehemence behind that last thought surprises her. 

Clarke spent months living in the forest to try and forget Lexa, coming to Polis only when she thought she had succeeded. 

Considering how easily anger cuts its way into her mind, sharp and red-edged, it’s obvious she’s been wasting her time. All the more reason to stay well away from Lexa.

Mind made up Clarke turns, meaning to retrace her steps and hide someplace until the excitement — which is leaving an almost metallic tang upon her tongue — dies down, only to come face to face with Sylia. Strange, that the matron isn’t at the forefront to greet Heda herself as is customary. 

She draws up short, barely managing to hold back a gasp. It will not do to try and lie her way out of the frying pan.  _ Nomon  _ always knows when her charges are lying, so she puts on a smile and dips her head in greeting. The latter isn’t required, but it might pay dividends to be extra polite. 

“And where are  _ you  _ going?” Sylia isn’t much taller than her, but the power she wields between these walls makes her towering. Her eyes, as steel grey as her braided hair, bore into her own, until Clarke is sure the woman already knows the answer to the question.

The thing is, she probably does. 

“I…” She swallows, wets her lips. “ _ She _ can’t see me here.” 

There have been rumors, half-heard whispers that the girls who go to the market more often than she does have brought back to the brothel. They are looking for her;  _ Heda _ , but others too. The clans are searching for the one who tore the Mountain down, gave her a name. A name so terrible in meaning, Clarke can’t bear thinking about it. 

“Is that so?” Pursing her lips, Sylia grabs her by the elbow, leading her into an empty room. This one’s used for storing clean bedding and towels; shelves and shelves of them. It smells so much like lavender inside that Clarke grows lightheaded. 

“Is it that she can’t be allowed to see you,  _ Klark— _ ” She winces at being called by her real name, hunches like a frightened animal. “Or you can’t stand the thought of seeing  _ her  _ again?” 

Sylia doesn’t know everything, but she knows enough. The rest is frighteningly accurate guesswork. 

When she first came to the brothel, Clarke did so armed with a fabricated story. It took  _ Nomon  _ a handful of pointed questions to unravel it, to see through  _ Caja _ ’s deception. In the end she was allowed to stay, regardless of the lies. 

“I would be foolish to turn a healer from my door.” Sylia had bluntly told her, ever practical. Whatever other designs she might have had for her, Clarke was left to guess at. 

Until now. 

“Both.” She spits out, forcing her back to straighten. “Does it matter? You know as well as I that if she finds me here, you’ll lose your healer. She may punish you for having sheltered me.” 

“Or reward me.” 

The latter is delivered flatly, a backhanded sort of comment. Despite the neutral tone, it winds Clarke worse than a sucker punch to her gut would. She bends double the words thudding solid into her midriff, and fear trickles down her spine like the water from the bath. 

This, however, chills her to the marrow. Causes her teeth to rattle. 

“Don’t you think I would have sold you out before if that was my intention?” Sylia’s tone isn’t unkind, exactly, but in that moment Clarke hates her nonetheless. She doesn’t bother hiding the sneer twisting her mouth, but that seems to please the woman, oddly enough. 

“If I’d known this would get a rise out of you, I would have said it months ago.” Sylia continues. “It has been painful to watch you try and be what you are not,  _ Wanheda _ .” The wretched title hangs like a dark fog between them, and Clarke recoils. 

It would be better if Sylia were hitting her, the way she’d birched the girl caught stealing from the others a few moons prior. 

They had all gathered to watch — the thief, now weeping, strung between two poles. The birch rod falling across her shoulder blades to a count of ten before she was kicked out into the street to seek her fortunes elsewhere. She’d gotten off lightly, Clarke knows. For some clans theft is punishable by death. 

The thud of the birch rod against her flesh would be preferable to this. 

Sylia would be doing her a favor. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” Clarke hates the way the words come out. Choked. Liquid with the tears she feels build behind her eyelids. 

“To help you.” She doesn’t know when Sylia got so close to her, but now  _ Nomon _ ’s hand is on her elbow, steering her out of the storage room and down the hall. “You can’t be  _ two people  _ forever.”

***

Clarke blinks, taking a moment to assess her situation. Sylia left, herding the others back to their duties. Some snuck Clarke furtive glances as they went —  _ Caja _ ’s friends beamed at her, but she’s gotten more than a few hard stares. Envy, jealousy, resentment. She’s bound to find a dress slashed, or sand inside her pillow.

In front of her is a closed door, nondescript like the rest lining the hall. Beyond it, Lexa awaits. 

Sylia uses the time it took them to walk here to instruct her. Apparently,  _ Heda  _ has been coming to the brothel every couple of months — although this is the first time she’s visited since Clarke arrived in Polis — seeking relief from old injuries. 

“The water helps her,” Sylia explains as Clarke strains to keep pace with her. “As do massages.”

“I don’t understand.” Clarke really doesn’t. Surely, Lexa has her own healers. They could tend to her well enough. She would be less shocked to know that  _ Heda  _ comes here for sex. That thought hurts, lodging itself into her heart, but the truth… She just can’t wrap her head around the truth. 

“People talk,” Sylia sounds as though she’s explaining why the sky is blue to a child. “Not the healers, who are bound to silence as we are—” Clarke nods at that, remembering the oath she took, the small brand on the inside of her wrist. “But others. Servants, guards, anyone else who lives inside the Tower.  _ Heda  _ can’t afford to show weakness. Ever.”

“So she comes here pretending to want—”

“Yes. A warm body for the night. Previous Commanders have come here for that. That’s not strange. It’s…”

“Expected.” Clarke completes, starting to glimpse the bigger picture.

“Exactly.”

“I still don’t understand why you want  _ me  _ to do it. There’s others.” That’s true only in part, and they both know it. The man who had her job before, Alec, has married and left for a village near the coast. But with Sylia’s permission, she’s started to train some of the girls. Juna is gifted — certainly she can handle a massage.

“As I said, this is to help you.” They can hear the others clearly now, and Sylia has to lower her voice to a whisper. “Hold on to your past, or let it go. That’s up to you, but you have to choose.”

And choosing, it seems, involves seeing Lexa again. 

It should be easy since Heda will be blindfolded, since Clarke is not even required to speak to her. 

It isn’t. 

One hand pushed flat against the door, Clarke searches Sylia’s words to her for another possible meaning. 

They carry weight, and facts that are not made less true simply because she’s loath to admit them to herself. 

It is correct, for example, that she can’t keep on the way she has, one soul with feet planted in two different identities. Barely a few months of play pretend and she’s already slipping. Fading. Not into Caja — that would be easier — but a third entity trapped between her past and her future. 

She can either go back to being Clarke, or fully embrace the grounder persona she forged for herself, but not live astride opposing worlds. The differences, the conflicts in allegiance are too many. 

Pushing the door open is the hardest thing she’s ever done, but some of the weight lifts off of her shoulders when she discovers Sylia hadn’t lied. 

The blindfold is something Lexa herself requires, to safeguard the identity of those who are chosen to serve her. It makes sense —  _ Heda  _ wanting to protect her people even in this — but to Clarke it is also a slap to the face. 

A reminder that, to the Commander of the Twelve Clans not everyone is worth preserving.

Seeing her for the first time since Mount Weather is another blow, but not for the reasons Clarke imagined. 

Out of her armor, Lexa looks young. Defenceless to someone who didn’t know any better. She lies belly down on a narrow cot, arms propped on a pillow. Her hair is unbound, and from what Clarke can glimpse of her face — only a hint of profile because of the blindfold and the way one cheek is pushed against her forearm — she wears no warpaint. 

Those who share her craft may be sworn to secrecy, to never reveal what a patron may let slip in between the sheets, but Lexa took pains to come here in disguise anyhow. Or, at least, not wearing her usual regalia. 

When the door clicks shut,  _ Heda  _ lifts her head, a frown forming behind the strip of cloth that hides her eyes. 

“You must be Caja.” Saying nothing in return, Clarke turns her back on her, perusing the jars of medicinal oils that have been set out on a nearby table. Some to soothe, others to relax, or mend. A few could cripple if mixed the wrong way. Or kill. 

Provided she could find a way to work them into Lexa’s flesh without spreading the oils on her own. 

It would be easy to do after a fashion, that or slip the slender blade she wears at the waist — which she uses to cut bandages and such — between the Commander’s ribs. Puncture a lung, and let her suffocate in her own blood. 

Clarke sighs, and lathers her palms with two of the oils. Chamomile to soothe and sage for healing. She’s spied a scar on Lexa’s lower back, healed, but pink with new flesh. 

Her work begins there. 

“I was told you don’t speak.” Lexa says after some time. Clarke is working on the knotted muscles of her shoulders now, hard labor that makes her sweat. She has no idea how Lexa can carry so much tension around without wanting to scream. “Is it a choice? Or has something happened to you?” She lifts herself up when she asks, turning her head to throw a glance over her shoulders. A natural gesture, but futile considering the blindfold. To Clarke it is as though they have locked eyes. She has to close hers, but the image of Lexa’s forest green stare is engraved too deep to be so easily dispelled. 

“I know some clans remove the tongues of their enemies after capture.” There’s anger in Lexa’s tone, whether at the practice or at her Clarke isn’t sure. “They rip them out with heated pincers, or burn—  _ ah _ ! ” 

Clarke slaps her upturned ass, cutting her short, and takes advantage of her surprise to push her back into position. She’s getting somewhere, but Lexa twisting around the way she is will undo all of her work. 

“I could have you flogged for that.” It shouldn’t be amusing to hear  _ Heda  _ sound so sullen, it shouldn’t make Clarke hate her less, but it does. She can’t help the tiniest snort, and at the sound Lexa goes limp under her touch. 

“I guess you have a point.” She concedes, relaxing into Clarke’s ministrations. “I didn’t mean to interfere with your work.” 

The rest of their allotted time is spent in silence, and when a bell is rung outside the door, announcing the end of the session, Clarke is the first to leave. Her exit is so swift she doesn’t even bother cleansing her hands. 

The rules of the house dictate that the patron be given the privacy to compose themselves before departing from the brothel. 

Rules and propriety are the furthest things from Clarke’s mind, however. She can’t stop thinking about the way Lexa’s hips jumped when her ass was struck. Clarke had smelled her too in that moment, the heady tang of her arousal. 

_ Heda  _ has hidden it well, but no matter the mastery she has on her emotions, her body speaks a different language altogether. 

The massage turned Lexa on, and later that night once she’s tucked safely in her bed, Clarke dreams of another room. Another cot, but this time it’s Lexa’s hands on her.

***

She tells herself that she imagined it, even though she knows that it’s a lie. 

It makes things somewhat more bearable, but a week later Lexa is back, a scene that repeats once every seven days. 

Each time, Clarke is called to serve her until she begins to anticipate the Commander’s arrival. Looks forward to it, even. 

At least, it gives her ample grounds to test her theory — or so she tells herself. Gathering the courage to see her plan through takes much longer than a simple thought.

Having learned her lesson, Lexa doesn’t try to strike up a conversation anymore. 

Words aren’t needed, anyway. Whenever she’s with Lexa, Clarke does her best to wrap in cold indifference, but spending so much time together means growing attuned to  _ Heda _ ’s moods. Her silences are different, and each has its own sound.

Today she’s tenser than she’s been ever before, a wound up spring on the verge of snapping. Not releasing, but breaking into a thousand tiny shards. Clarke doesn’t know the exact reason why, but has no trouble imagining it. 

Rumors have reached her, despite the thickness of the brothel’s thick walls, of war far in the north. Skirmishes for now, but the taut line of Lexa’s spine, bones jutting out against her skin, tells Clarke  _ Heda  _ expects things to worsen soon.

She shouldn’t dare go through with her plan, but what does she have to lose? And what day better than today, when the Commander’s mind is so clearly otherwise occupied? Besides, Clarke’s not sure she’ll be able to do what she planned at all, given another week to think on it. 

At worst, Lexa will stop her and call for somebody else next time she’s here.  _ Gods _ , Clarke is already thinking about next time. 

There are no new scars to take special care of, which should make her feel disappointed instead of glad, so at first, Clarke goes through the routine she uses with the other clients. 

Starts at the caps of Lexa’s shoulders, working from the outside in, to the nape of her neck. With Lexa’s flesh growing soft and warm under her fingers, Clarke moves to the broadness of her back, making her way down the Commander’s spine. 

Sometimes, in order to get to a particularly stubborn knot, she has to dig a little harder, but Lexa doesn’t complain. She sighs, occasionally grunts, and a few times Clarke spots it again. 

The subtle shift of her hips, as if she’s starting to grind against the bedding before her mind reels her body in, reminding her that she hasn't come here for that. 

Not a fantasy then, or wishful thinking. 

When her hands dip lower, the intent is to subtly tease, withdraw before Lexa can realize what’s happening, but either Clarke miscalculated the placement of her fingertips, or Lexa is more aware than she gave her credit for. 

Rubbing her thumbs into  _ Heda _ ’s hips goes smoothly enough, but when her fingers stray, following the edge of Lexa’s underthings, the Commander’s hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist. Hard. 

“Wait.” She’s panting slightly, and her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. She’s turned around faster than a snake, sitting up in a blur of motion that was impossible to follow. If she’d ever attempted such a feat, Clarke would spill to the ground, lightheaded from the rush of blood to her head. 

Lexa pulls herself up, pulling Clarke close enough that she has to steady herself against a toned shoulder or fall into her lap. The cotton sheet she uses to cover Lexa’s legs up if the Commander grows too cold has dropped to the floor, but she ignores it. Her gaze is glued to what Lexa’s thighs, having fallen open, have revealed. 

Her smallclothes are soaked through, clinging to her folds in such a way that Clarke can see the outline of her dripping slit.

She lets her hand fall down, but Lexa’s hold on her wrist tightens, bones grinding together under her calloused palm. 

“Wait,” Heda repeats, voice filled with gravel. “Are you sure? I don’t require… I didn’t request you here for this. I can take care of it myself, later. You aren’t obligated.” 

It’s the most words she’s ever said to Clarke since the night before they stormed the Mountain. 

The intent behind them is what helps in making up her mind. She would very much like to believe that Lexa’s evil, that’s she’s not above forcing her into servicing, rather than serving. 

If she ripped the blindfold off, Clarke could end it. But she doesn’t want it to end, that’s the thing, and Lexa clearly needs it. 

Her assent takes the form of a kiss. Chaste, a fleeting brush of her lips at the corner of Lexa’s mouth. Clarke doesn’t dare linger longer than that, or kiss her fully on the mouth. They’ve only kissed once before, true, but she’s sure Lexa would know it’s her. 

“Please.” Lexa  _ sags _ against her, rests her tired head atop Clarke’s shoulder. Allows herself to be cradled, comforted by the knowledge the girl whose name she thinks is Caja is honor-bound to keep the display of weakness to herself. 

Clarke could tease her and then deny her. She’s tempted to, but the clock that never ceased ticking inside her head tells her she doesn’t have much time. In a while one of the others will come by and ring the bell. Then she’ll have to leave. 

It’s quick, when it comes down to it. Frantic and somewhat more sordid than she expected. She doesn’t bother removing Lexa’s underwear, simply touching her through it. Her clit readily jumps at the first pass of Clarke’s fingers, and she barely has time to push inside Lexa’s pulsing opening once, fingerfucking her through the nearly nonexistent underthings before  _ Heda _ ’s coming, smothering a scream into her collarbone.

“Thank you.” She whispers, leaning in to kiss Clarke when the aftershocks subside. At the last minute, Lexa’s breath already in her mouth, she turns aside offering her cheek instead.

“Oh.” Lexa pulls away, her face crimson under the blindfold. “I apologize. I didn’t mean—” 

Clarke almost tugs her back, but the bell rings outside. Just in time to save her from doing anything stupid.

Just a moment too soon. 

***

The next time she joins Lexa in the room, Clarke is in for a surprise.

Usually, when she gets to her, Heda is already on her stomach, ready for her massage. 

Not this time. 

She’s blindfolded — thankfully — and is wearing just her smallclothes, but she’s sitting on the cot instead of lying down. 

The change is minimal, but puts Clarke immediately on edge.

“This is the last time I’ll see you for some time.” Lexa begins, and the announcement halts Clarke halfway to the table and the oils. “I have to head north. You might have heard—” 

She stops, tilts her head expectantly. 

Interpreting that as a cue to let Lexa know she understands what the topic is, Clarke makes a low noise in the back of her throat.

“Yes. Well. Anyway, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Hopefully soon. But I was thinking—” 

Clarke doesn’t let her finish. 

She flies across the room, a sudden terror giving her wings. The fear that Lexa will head north, never to return. 

Run through by one of Azgeda’s swords, bleeding out so red against the white of snow. 

Holding back a sob by the skin of her teeth, Clarke falls to her knees in front of the cot, pushing Lexa’s thighs apart with the press of one shoulder.

“You don’t have—” A gasp cuts through Lexa’s protests, the muscles of her inner thigh flexing under Clarke’s mouth. Under her teeth, when she bites into the soft flesh there, leaving a mark. “Your fingers are enough.” Lexa’s hand falls to the crown of her head, but despite the words that fall from her lips she does nothing to push her back. To keep Clarke from pulling her underwear aside and licking into her. 

When Lexa moans, low and guttural, it’s the sound of a woman coming undone. A sound Clarke has craved to hear for so long, betrayal notwithstanding, she has a hard time not breaking into tears. 

She buries her face deeper, letting Lexa’s juices drool all over it. Her cheeks, her chin. Inside her mouth when she laps at Lexa’s fluttering opening. And then, since they are as always on the tightest of schedules, she recalls how quickly Lexa unravels when she pushes her fingers in just so, rubs them into the spot behind her hooded clit as though she’s working the herbal oils in the skin of  _ Heda _ ’s back.

The hand fisting her hair twists, rough. Making her see stars. Clarke licks at Lexa’s clit a little faster, fucks her harder, following the wild bucking of her hips. 

Lexa’s body winds, coils, the muscles of her belly shaking before she stills completely, back rigid as every atom of her being teeters on the edge. On the other side is bliss, and with one expert swirl of the tongue, Clarke tips her over. 

For a long, breathless moment, they are both suspended in time. Or perhaps the world flows as normal around them, but they’ve sidestepped into some kind of pocket reality only they can perceive. Lexa shatters into Clarke’s waiting mouth, hand clutching tighter and tighter at her tresses while she comes.

The instant the universe pours back into her ears — a loud, gunshot-like  _ pop  _ — Clarke forgets herself. Her control slips, and overwhelmed by the taste coating her tongue, she whimpers. 

“ _ Klark _ ?!” 

Lexa rips the blindfold off, disbelief widening her eyes. They’re still simmering with lust, Clarke notes, and oh — deep enough to drown her. 

“ _ Klark… _ ” The hand in her hair loosens, shifts to cup her nape. “ _ Klark _ , is this— are you—?”

_ Real _ , Clarke is positive that’s what Lexa meant to ask, but outside the shut door the bell is ringing, and she’s never  _ hated  _ that silvery sound more.

“Just don’t die, alright?” She manages, squeezing one of Lexa’s thighs. Clarke doesn’t know whether she’s laughing or crying — it sounds like, maybe, she is doing both. “Just come back to me.”

It takes one season and then some, but Lexa does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Bored in lockdown? [join me on Tumblr](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/) for more stories, more smut and gay nonsense!


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